“Pish!” exclaimed the general angrily.
“My clover! I tell you, they won’t
leave me a roof over my head. They’ll eat
me into the poorhouse. But I’ll turn them
off. I’ll send them packing, bag and baggage.
My clover!”

“Moses ain’t got much of a garden patch,”
said Eugenia. “It looks mighty poor.
The potato-bugs ate all his potatoes.”

The general was silent again.

“I say, daughter,” he began at last, blowing
a heavy cloud of smoke upon the air, “the next
time you go by Sweet Gum Spring you had just as well
tell Moses that I can let him have a side of bacon
if he wants it. The rascal can’t starve.
But they won’t leave me a mouthful—­not
one. And Eugie—­”

“Yes, sir.”

“You needn’t mention it to your Aunt Chris—­”

At that instant a little barefooted negro came running
across the lawn from the spring-house, a large tin
pail in his hand.

“Here, boy!” called the general.
“Where’re you off to? What have you
got in that pail?”

“It’s Jake,” said Eugenia in a whisper,
while Jim barked frantically from the shelter of her
arms. “He’s Delphy’s Jake.”

The small negro stood grinning in the walk, his white
eyeballs circling in their sockets. “Hit’s
Miss Chris, suh,” he said at last.

“Miss Chris, you rascal!” shouted the
general. “Do you expect me to believe you’ve
got Miss Chris in that pail? Open it, sir; open
it!”

Jake showed a shining row of ivory teeth and stood
shaking the pail from side to side.

“Bless my soul!” cried the general wrathfully.
“Get away with you! The whole place is
bent on ruining me. I’ll be in the poorhouse
before the week’s up.” And he strode
indoors in a rage.

VII

Twice a year, on fine days in spring and fall, Aunt
Griselda’s bombazine dresses were taken from
the whitewashed closet and hung out to air upon the
clothesline at the back of the house, while pungent
odours of tar and camphor were exhaled from the full
black folds. On these days Aunt Griselda would
remain in her room, sorting faded relics which she
took from a cedar chest and spread beside her on the
floor. The door was kept locked at such times,
but once Eugenia, who had gone with Congo to carry
Aunt Griselda her toast and tea, had caught a glimpse
of a yellowed swiss muslin frock and the leather case
of a daguerreotype containing the picture of a round-eyed
girl with rosy cheeks. Aunt Griselda had hidden
them hastily away at the child’s entrance—­hidden
them with that nervous, awkward haste which dreads
a dawning jest of itself; but Eugenia had seen that
her old eyes were red and her voice more rasping than
usual.